“Don’t change the subject,” Brody complained. He leaned against the high top table in the middle of the suite. “You’re such an ass.”
“I’m just saying, youknewthis was happening.”
“I know you were fucking him,” Brody said. Ramsey wouldn’t admit it even under threat of a red-hot poker, but he missed pre-Dean Brody. The nun Brody, the even more naive Brody, who couldn’t say the wordfuckingwithout blushing.
“I told you we were dating,” Ramsey said mildly.
“You did. So did Wes. But we both sort of assumed that was only because he resisted all your other advances. Not that it wasserious. Not that you would show up to his game in hisjersey. Like hisWAG.”
“Hey,” Ramsey retorted.
“Yes, an outdated and horrible term. But still applicable here.” Brody crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck, Ramsey?”
“I can’t believe you think I’d tell him we were dating just to get into his pants.”
It hadkindof been that way. But Brody didn’t need to know that. At least Nate had been in on it.
“Admittedly, you’ve never had to do that before, but Wes told me that Nate was tougher. Maybe the toughest challenge you’ve had yet—”
“Nate’s not a challenge.” It wasn’t like Nate had told himno thanksand Ramsey had seen red and done whatever he could to get the guy into bed. If he’d wanted sex, he’d have found sex. Admittedly, probably in another bed that wasn’t Nate’s. And that would’ve been a damn shame.
“Holy shit,” Brody said, his eyes going wide again. “You like him. Youlovehim.”
Ramsey choked on his beer. “You don’t know that.”
“Uh, yeah, I do. It’s pretty damn obvious.” That settled, of course Brody changed the goddamn subject all on his own. “So you’re skating again. What does Rossbury think?”
“I convinced him to not bother sending me to the AHL.” That was not entirely true. It could still happen, but only if Ramsey showed up to the Wolves’ facility and wasn’t game-ready. And that wouldneverhappen.
“Wow, really?” Brody leaned over and rummaged through one of the fridges, grabbing his own beer.
“There’s caveats,” Ramsey allowed.
Brody rolled his eyes. “You gotta show up in a few weeks? A month? In game shape. Ready to play.”
Maybe Brody had never gone to the NHL but he could’ve. He’d been drafted and gone to two developmental camps with the Canes. But when push had come to shove, he’d decided he’d rather be a doctor than a professional hockey player.
Ramsey still didn’t really understand it, but he’d also learned, the hard way that year, that he didn’t have to understand things to respect them.
“Yep, that’s what we discussed,” Ramsey confirmed.
“And how’s that going?”
“Good.” He was sore, most days, but a good kind of sore. Slowly but surely getting his speed and agility back. He’d worried, just a little, that his puck handling, always a strength of his game, wouldn’t come back the same as it had been before the hit, but so far, everything seemed to be coming back.
He’d even taken advantage of the more basic drills to up his precision even more.
Maybe he’d even come back from injured reserve better than before he’d left.
“For a little while, I thought you’d have to find something else to do,” Brody said gently.
That had been the worst-case scenario. There’d been plenty of long, lonely nights where Ramsey wondered if that would be him. But that wasn’t the kind of thought he ever shared, even with Wes, even with Brody. Maybe he’d tell Nate, someday.
“And what would I even do? Professionally run people’s lives?” Easier to make it a joke.
But Brody just shook his head. Still thoughtful. “You have Vault. And I have a feeling that whatever you wanted to do, whatever opportunity came up, you’d be fucking great at it. Wes says the bar is doing amazing.”
Ramsey didn’t know about amazing, but it hadn’t hurt that it was now the favored spot of all the pro athletes in town. Auston Matthews had just booked a private room for Anthony Stolarz’s birthday party. The balance sheet was solid, even with the expensive remodel they’d done of the space, and the insane rent price of being in downtown Toronto. Nevermind the rising costs of everything else.
